told her what they wanted. All
of the hours Jane had spent hustling this woman around the country
settled on her chest like a weight. “Where do you think you
could go where there would be the smallest chance you’d be
recognized?”
“Smallest chance?”
“That’s what I
said.”
“Let’s see. We just
left California, so that’s out. Texas is also out.”
Jane concentrated on the
mechanical details for the next few minutes. At Ann Arbor she took
the Huron Street exit. She said, “When was the last time you
slept?”
“I slept maybe four hours
last night. Jails never seem to quiet down until you start to smell
breakfast.”
“We’ll sleep now.”
There was a motel just after the
exit. Jane pulled into the lot and walked into the office by herself
to rent a room. She opened the door with the key, locked the door,
checked each of the windows, tossed the key on the table by the door,
undressed, and lay down on the nearest bed without speaking. Mary
Perkins had no choice but to imitate her. When she awoke, the sun was
glaring through a crack between the curtains and Jane was sitting on
the other bed reading a newspaper. Mary sat up and said, “What
time is it?”
“Ten. Checkout is twelve.
We’ve got a lot to do.”
Mary Perkins rubbed her eyes. “I
guess we’ll make it.” She smiled. “It’s not
as though we had to pack, is it?”
“No.”
Mary Perkins swung her feet to
the floor and stood up. She had been surprised to see that Jane was
dressed, but the newspaper suddenly caught her attention. “You’ve
been out.”
“Yes,” said Jane,
not looking up. Mary Perkins could see that she had circled some
little boxes in the want ads. Jane also had set a medium-sized
grocery bag on the table beside the key.
“I never heard you,”
said Mary on the way to the bathroom. “You must be the quietest
person I ever met in my life.”
“I figured you needed to
sleep.”
Mary examined the shower and
found that the knobs were hot and the tub was wet. She thought about
the woman in the other room. A lot of people could tiptoe around
pretty well, just like little cats. But how did this one get
everything else to be quiet – appliances and fixtures and
things?
Mary Perkins got the water to
run warm and stepped under the spray. She felt good, she had to
admit. Here she was in a clean room with a clear head a couple of
thousand miles away from danger, and taking a shower. Once again
whatever it was that had always kept the luck coming had not failed.
But now that she was alert and
not particularly frightened, she had time to think about that woman
out there on the bed. What she sensed about Jane Whitefield was not
comforting. No, the animal wasn’t a cat. Just because it looked
like it had soft fur and the eyes were big and liquid and it didn’t
make any noise at all didn’t mean it was cuddly and gentle.
Mary was not the sort of person who lost fingers at zoos. Whatever
this one was, it had that look because it happened to be the female
of its species, not because it was something you wanted around the
house.
The person who had recognized
Jane Whitefield in jail was a short black woman named Ellery
Robinson. The word on Ellery Robinson was that she had been pulled in
on a parole violation. That didn’t make her seem interesting
until Mary learned that the conviction was for having killed a man in
bed with an old-fashioned straight razor. She had served six or seven
years of a life sentence in the California Institution for Women at
Frontera, one of those places in the endless desert east of Los
Angeles. She was in her fifties now, small and compact with a short,
athletic body like a leathery teenager. She never spoke to anyone,
having long ago lost interest in whatever other people gained from
listening, and having gotten used to whatever it was they expelled by
talking. But sometimes she still answered questions if they weren’t
personal.
Mary was in the mess hall one
morning when another woman
of the hours Jane had spent hustling this woman around the country
settled on her chest like a weight. “Where do you think you
could go where there would be the smallest chance you’d be
recognized?”
“Smallest chance?”
“That’s what I
said.”
“Let’s see. We just
left California, so that’s out. Texas is also out.”
Jane concentrated on the
mechanical details for the next few minutes. At Ann Arbor she took
the Huron Street exit. She said, “When was the last time you
slept?”
“I slept maybe four hours
last night. Jails never seem to quiet down until you start to smell
breakfast.”
“We’ll sleep now.”
There was a motel just after the
exit. Jane pulled into the lot and walked into the office by herself
to rent a room. She opened the door with the key, locked the door,
checked each of the windows, tossed the key on the table by the door,
undressed, and lay down on the nearest bed without speaking. Mary
Perkins had no choice but to imitate her. When she awoke, the sun was
glaring through a crack between the curtains and Jane was sitting on
the other bed reading a newspaper. Mary sat up and said, “What
time is it?”
“Ten. Checkout is twelve.
We’ve got a lot to do.”
Mary Perkins rubbed her eyes. “I
guess we’ll make it.” She smiled. “It’s not
as though we had to pack, is it?”
“No.”
Mary Perkins swung her feet to
the floor and stood up. She had been surprised to see that Jane was
dressed, but the newspaper suddenly caught her attention. “You’ve
been out.”
“Yes,” said Jane,
not looking up. Mary Perkins could see that she had circled some
little boxes in the want ads. Jane also had set a medium-sized
grocery bag on the table beside the key.
“I never heard you,”
said Mary on the way to the bathroom. “You must be the quietest
person I ever met in my life.”
“I figured you needed to
sleep.”
Mary examined the shower and
found that the knobs were hot and the tub was wet. She thought about
the woman in the other room. A lot of people could tiptoe around
pretty well, just like little cats. But how did this one get
everything else to be quiet – appliances and fixtures and
things?
Mary Perkins got the water to
run warm and stepped under the spray. She felt good, she had to
admit. Here she was in a clean room with a clear head a couple of
thousand miles away from danger, and taking a shower. Once again
whatever it was that had always kept the luck coming had not failed.
But now that she was alert and
not particularly frightened, she had time to think about that woman
out there on the bed. What she sensed about Jane Whitefield was not
comforting. No, the animal wasn’t a cat. Just because it looked
like it had soft fur and the eyes were big and liquid and it didn’t
make any noise at all didn’t mean it was cuddly and gentle.
Mary was not the sort of person who lost fingers at zoos. Whatever
this one was, it had that look because it happened to be the female
of its species, not because it was something you wanted around the
house.
The person who had recognized
Jane Whitefield in jail was a short black woman named Ellery
Robinson. The word on Ellery Robinson was that she had been pulled in
on a parole violation. That didn’t make her seem interesting
until Mary learned that the conviction was for having killed a man in
bed with an old-fashioned straight razor. She had served six or seven
years of a life sentence in the California Institution for Women at
Frontera, one of those places in the endless desert east of Los
Angeles. She was in her fifties now, small and compact with a short,
athletic body like a leathery teenager. She never spoke to anyone,
having long ago lost interest in whatever other people gained from
listening, and having gotten used to whatever it was they expelled by
talking. But sometimes she still answered questions if they weren’t
personal.
Mary was in the mess hall one
morning when another woman
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